


On the Sofa

by HermioneGirl96



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Canon, Present Tense, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 16:30:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneGirl96/pseuds/HermioneGirl96
Summary: Baz goes to therapy.





	On the Sofa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mudblood428](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mudblood428/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by a lovely [drawing](https://vkelleyart.tumblr.com/post/184405020102/simon-snow-is-lying-on-the-sofa-chapter-1) by vkelleyart on Tumblr, so I decided to dedicate the fic to her! Happy birthday, Venessa!

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa. 

Bunce and I have this down to a science by now. Pulling Simon out of a sulk, I mean. Snogging cheers him up for two hours. Movies and crap telly do all right until they’re over, but then you only have 20 minutes before he starts sulking again. Scones and certain types of junk food cheer him up for an hour. Cuddling has about a 30-minute afterglow. The effects of exercise last twice as long as however long he exercises. 

The numbers are why I come round as often as I do. Snogging is simply the most effective thing we’ve tried so far, especially if you factor in how hard it is to get Simon to get dressed and leave the flat to go exercise. And no one wants Bunce and Simon to snog. (I doubt it would have the same effect, anyway.) So I’m here a lot. 

Tonight, though, Simon ate a whole pizza. He eats either nothing or everything these days, but, even by his current standards, an entire pizza is a lot. Penny pulled me into the kitchen for a quick whispered conversation—“We can’t let this continue, Baz”—and now we’re back in the lounge. Penny climbed onto the arm of the sofa, and now I’m leaning over the back. Simon’s got his head stuffed into the cushions and his wings hanging off the front of the sofa. I can’t see his face, just his right ear. I’ve kissed that ear too many times to count over the past several months. He likes it when I do that. 

“Simon?” Bunce says. There’s a hesitant note in her voice that I’m not used to from her. Penelope Bunce is many things; gentle is not usually one of them. But she’ll do anything for Simon, even that. 

So will I. 

Simon pushes himself up with one arm and shifts so that his head is on a pillow resting against the arm of the sofa. He looks first at Bunce and then at me. “What?” I can’t detect any emotion in his voice, just exhaustion. 

“Come with me to Chicago,” says Bunce, still with that gentle tone. 

My eyes snap to her. “What?” I say on reflex, involuntarily echoing Simon. 

Bunce’s eyes don’t waver from Simon. “That’s where your psychologist is, right?”

“Yeah, but—” Simon starts, but Bunce cuts him off. 

“Come with me when I visit Micah,” Bunce says. “You’re not okay, Si. I love you, but I can’t love you out of this mess, and neither can Baz. We’ve tried everything we can do. You need more help than we can give you. So come with me to Chicago.” 

Simon stuffs his face back into the cushions. “I’m sorry for being a mess,” he mumbles. 

I run a hand along his arm, the only part of him I can comfortably reach. Occasionally, when I make my touch feather-light and he’s in a good mood, I can get a small hum out of him by trailing my fingers over his arm. Not right now, though. “No one’s asking you to apologize, love,” I say, schooling my tone into gentleness. Is it this hard for Bunce? I’ve months of practice at this point and it still feels like putting myself in a straightjacket every time. “You’ve been through a lot. It makes sense that you’re not okay.” 

I have more to say, but Simon flips around then and sits up, wings flaring behind him and knocking the lamp and half-empty teacup off sofa table. They both shatter, but Simon doesn’t flinch. “Then how come _you’re_ okay?”

I bite my lip and resist the urge to put my head in my hands. I don’t want to have this conversation with him. But he’s glaring at me, chin jutting forward, and I don’t have much of a choice. “I think it’s because you’re not,” I say as gently as I can. “I’m so worried about you that I’m running on adrenaline most of the time. I feel kind of invincible.” I don’t add that there are times when I come off the adrenaline high, when everything seems impossible and it takes everything in me to get out of bed and go through my usual shower and hair care routine so Simon and Bunce won’t suspect anything. It feels irrelevant, because all it takes to drag myself out of that hole is the sight of Simon, unkempt and defeated. Knowing he needs me gives me more power than even sharing his magic did.

“Right, so you’re coming too,” says Bunce, turning to me.

“What?” Good Merlin, am I incapable of saying anything else?

“I’m the only one in this flat with healthy coping mechanisms, so you’re coming to Chicago too, and you’re seeing the therapist,” says Bunce. “Also, as messed up as you both are, you’re good for each other. I’m not separating you if I don’t have to.” 

I grit my teeth and fight the urge to bare my fangs. “I’m not seeing the therapist.” 

Bunce rolls her eyes. “Why not?” she asks. Most, but not all, of the gentleness has ebbed from her voice. There’s just enough left that she doesn’t sound snippy. 

I can’t think of anything to say that neither maligns Simon for getting help nor proves Bunce’s point. I can’t very well say that therapy is rubbish or that I don’t deserve help. I simply say, “Because.” 

“Yeah, that’s not a reason,” says Bunce, and now she does sound snippy. “You’re coming to Chicago and you’re going to therapy.”

OoOoOoO

It shouldn’t surprise either Bunce or me that Simon has neither a passport nor the requisite documents to obtain one, but for some reason neither of us anticipated that. In the end, Fiona winds up forging a passport for him. I decide I’m better off not asking questions.

The day before we’re set to leave for a week in America, I find Simon sitting (though luckily not lying) on the sofa when I enter the flat he and Bunce share. He’s scrolling through his phone and seems to be in a decently stable mood. I take a seat next to him and he sets his phone down and looks at me. “I’ve never flown before.” 

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Snow. You have wings.” 

Simon rolls his eyes. “I mean on a plane.” 

It’s a good thing I have a lot of practice regulating my facial expression around Simon, because otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d be goggling at him. What he said shouldn’t be a surprise—when would he have flown?—but it’s damn near unfathomable to me that someone could reach the age of 18 without setting foot on an aeroplane. Family trips to France and Egypt were simply a given during my childhood. 

I’ve gone too long without responding, and Simon’s starting to fold in on himself. I put an arm around him and start rubbing at his far shoulder with my thumb. “What is it, love?” I ask. 

“I know I’m not posh enough for you,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.” 

I kiss him on the cheek. “Simon. Darling. Why would you apologize for that? It’s not like being posh is a virtue, or like either of us had any control over what circumstances we were born into. If anything, I should be apologizing for coming from moneyed interests that have never given a damn about those growing up in circumstances like yours.” 

Simon shakes his head and slumps still further. “I’m not asking for class guilt.” 

I kiss his temple. “I know, love. And I’m not asking you to apologize for not being posh. All right?”

“I suppose,” Simon mumbles. He glances at me briefly. “I know you’re gay, and Agatha doesn’t want anything to do with magic anymore, but I always thought you two would be perfect together.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” says Simon. “You’d understand her horse competitions and galas and all that posh rot I was never any good at.” 

I shrug. Good Merlin, please tell me I’m not turning into my boyfriend. “I always thought you two were perfect together. Both beautiful and shining and good.” 

Simon shrugs back. “You’re beautiful too. I mean, yeah, in some ways you would have been a contrast to Agatha, but contrast can be good.” 

I take Simon’s hand, raise it to my mouth, and kiss it. “Not that we’d know anything about that.” 

Simon gives me a small smile and then kisses me on the lips. 

It’s a bit later when Bunce comes into the lounge and yells, “Oi!”

OoOoOoO

I’ve never been to America before. I don’t think Father sees the point of America, really. Neither do I, if I’m being honest. Other than the fact that it’s home to Micah, whom I vaguely remember from Watford, there’s not much reason for me to care about America. So I’ve never flown West before.

The plane ride makes the day really long, but that’s all right. The sun is outside the windows the whole time, so for the most part I just read an entire issue of _The Economist_ while Simon naps and plays games on his phone. I have a feeling the overnight flight on the way back will be a lot less pleasant, but for now I’ll appreciate that spending eight hours in the air isn’t turning out to be that bad. 

Micah picks us up from the airport, and we drive at the speed of a crawl through Chicago’s traffic to his house. It’s decent in size, but he has multiple siblings and we’re three full-grown adults being added to the mix, so I get the sense that we’ll feel cramped before long. (Simon might say that’s the poshness talking.) Whatever. At least Micah’s parents are willing to let Bunce stay in Micah’s room and Simon and me share the guest bed, so nobody has to sleep on the floor. 

We wake up early on our first morning in Chicago due to jet lag, and Bunce mercilessly drags Micah out of bed with her, and we spend the day sightseeing. We take pictures by the Bean and visit the Shedd Aquarium and walk along Lake Michigan and all the rest of it. Simon and I hold hands most of the time, and it feels nice not to worry about seeing any of these people ever again. Bunce and Micah are all over each other, and I’m pretty sure it makes our handholding look tame by comparison. I hadn’t realised Bunce would go in for so much PDA, but I suppose she hadn’t seen Micah in a year. I can’t imagine going that long without seeing Simon. I think I’d set myself alight. 

On the second day, Simon and I have back-to-back appointments with Simon’s therapist. I’m still kind of angry that I let Bunce talk me into this, especially given the phone conversation it necessitated with Daphne, but at least Daphne agreed to be discreet where my father is concerned. Bunce offered to get Micah to drive us to the appointment, but I opted for a cab instead. If I have to do this and I can’t drive myself, I’d rather be driven by someone whom I don’t know at all and will never see again than by someone whom I vaguely know and who may be on the periphery of my social circle for the rest of my life. I specifically instructed Bunce not to mention to Micah that I was going to therapy. I have no idea if she has Simon’s permission to tell Micah anything on that front, so I don’t know if she’ll be completely lying to him about our destination or just about why I’m tagging along, and frankly I don’t care. Simon’s information is for him to do with as he pleases. 

Simon’s appointment is first, so I spend an hour in the waiting room reading news articles on my phone. (There are magazines in the waiting room, mostly about wellness, but reading something like that would make this all feel too real in the worst way.)

Simon’s eyes are puffy and red when he exits the appointment room. Since there’s no one else here, I stand and enfold him in a hug, kissing his temple as I pull him close to me. “Are you all right, love?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” he whispers shakily. “I’m fine.” 

When I let Simon go, I ask, “Should I go in now? I don’t know how this works.” 

“Yeah, she said whenever you were ready,” he replies. 

“All right,” I reply. I square my shoulders. I feel like I’m about to march into battle. 

“It’s going to be all right, darling,” says Simon softly. “You don’t need to be scared. She’s really nice.” 

“Right,” I mutter. But I think this is different for me than it is for Simon. He’s always received services, always had strangers poking around in his life, and I just haven’t. I’ve been raised with Pitch pride and Grimm cunning to never let anyone see behind the mask I cultivate. Even when we were kids, Simon and I were deeply different. He cried in class a few times, or in the great hall. I think I’d have offed myself if I’d ever done that. 

But, although most of me is fighting it, I know deep down that Bunce is right, and so is Daphne, and so is Simon. I need this. I love my family, but I don’t want to turn into Father or Fiona. I don’t want to run on adrenaline or spite or even a desire to keep Simon alive. I want to want to live. And I need help with that. So. Here goes nothing. 

A petite woman gets up from an armchair when I enter the appointment room. The room is full of slowly rotating magical gadgets, creating the most soothing atmosphere I’ve ever walked into. The woman walks toward me and gives me a firm handshake. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m Dr Amy Wilson. You can call me Amy, Dr Wilson, or Dr Amy. Whatever makes you comfortable. And what should I call you?” 

“Basil is fine for now,” I say, suddenly very aware of my accent. 

Dr Wilson returns to her armchair. There’s an armchair next to her and a sofa across from her. I wonder if I’m supposed to lie on the sofa like I’ve seen people do in therapists’ offices in movies or on telly. I consider taking the other armchair to avoid that dilemma completely, but sitting next to Dr Wilson seems like an odd move, so instead I perch on the edge of the sofa and hope that’s sufficient. 

“So, Basil. Why are you here today?” Dr Wilson asks.

“Simon’s friend Bunce thought it would be a good idea.” 

“And why did Bunce think that?” 

I swallow. I don’t want to get into this, but it’s why I’m here. I swallow again and dive in. “I’ve been running on adrenaline all summer,” I admit. “Maybe since last winter, really. Well, no, that wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t see how badly Simon was doing while I was at school, even though we texted and Skyped a lot, and anyway, I was running on family duty then, too. My family always graduate top of our class at Watford, and I didn’t want to break that pattern, not when I knew I could get top marks if I put my mind to it, and not when it’s the best way I can honor my mother’s memory. But I’ve definitely been running on adrenaline all summer. I’m always a bit disoriented when I’m not in school, and it’s worse since I’ve graduated, both because I don’t have Watford to look forward to anymore and because Simon’s been such a wreck. Thinking that something bad might happen to Simon—that he might do something bad to himself—gives me an adrenaline high, and I’ve basically been living on those since graduation. Sometimes I come down off the adrenaline on the rare days when Simon seems okay or when I don’t see Simon for a day or two, and then I crash hard.” 

“What do you mean, you crash hard?” 

“I just feel so exhausted. It’s hard to get out of bed and shower, but I make myself do it so Simon and Bunce won’t notice anything’s wrong.” 

“How often does this happen?” Dr Wilson asks. 

“Once or twice a week.” 

Dr Wilson stands, goes to the desk behind her armchair, puts a paper on a clipboard, grabs a pen, walks toward me, and hands me the clipboard and the pen. “Could you answer these questions for me?” 

I glance down at the paper. It has questions about things like “feeling down, depressed, or hopeless,” “trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much,” and “feeling bad about yourself—or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down.” I grit my teeth and circle answers to the questions. I report that sometimes I feel bad, my sleep and activity are mostly normal, and I always feel like a failure and think I’d be better off dead. 

When Dr Wilson reviews my answers, she asks, “Do you have a plan for suicide?” 

I nod reluctantly and light a fire just above my palm. “Yeah. This,” I say quietly. 

“Are you planning on killing yourself anytime soon?” 

I shake my head. “No. Simon needs me.” 

She lets out a breath. “That’s good. Is there anything else you’re living for?” 

I sigh. “I think it will be better once I’m in school again. I love being a student, and learning, and the whole academic atmosphere. I’ve enrolled in the London School of Economics for the fall and I’m really hoping that will help.” I look down at my lap. “I’m scared, though. It’ll be hard to juggle Simon with a full-time courseload.” 

“That’s a real concern, and we can talk about it in a minute. You circled that you always feel like a failure. From what you’ve said about yourself, though, you seem to be a very accomplished young man. Why do you feel like a failure?” 

“Well, that question asked about letting your family down. My father is deeply disappointed that I’m gay. And also”—oh, what the hell, if she reacts badly I’ll just kill her; I need to talk about this—“I’m a vampire. My mother and I were Turned when I was five. My mother killed herself rather than live as a vampire. I think she’d want me to do the same thing if she’d known what I was. What I am.” 

There’s a challenge in Dr Wilson’s stare. “Do you kill people?” she asks, like she already knows the answer. 

I stare right back at her. “No. Of course not.” 

“Then how are you different than people who eat meat?”

“Well, I don’t have a soul, for one thing. I have super strength and I’m immune to diseases and I might be immortal. Shall I go on?”

Dr Wilson shakes her head. “No. You’ve made your point. Nevertheless, you’re not worth any less than anyone else just because you’re a vampire.”

I roll my eyes. “Right.” 

“I’m serious, but I don’t think I’ll be convincing you today. Let’s get back to your concern that you won’t be able to juggle taking care of Simon and going to school full-time. Why do you feel responsible for Simon?” 

I frown. “Well, he’s my boyfriend, to begin with. Also, I’m the one in the best position to cheer him up and make sure he stays alive. Bunce and I have timed how long different tactics work in terms of pulling him out of a sulk, and physical affection is simply the most effective tactic we have.” 

I have a feeling I’m going to become very familiar with Dr Wilson’s dry glare, even if this is our only session. “You realise that Simon’s not a five-year-old with a boo-boo. You can’t kiss him to make him better.” 

“But it _works_ ,” I insist. 

“For how long?” 

“Two hours, which is longer than anything else works.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Basil,” she says. “They all are. Everything you’re trying. What he needs is time, and therapy, and possibly medications, and probably better food and more exercise than he’s currently getting. You can be part of the solution, but your support is going to mean more than any kiss could.” 

Now I’m the one glaring. “I’m going to continue giving him both.” 

“By all means, do,” she says. “I’m not saying it’s bad that you two are kissing. I fully support it. I just don’t want you to put physical intimacy on a pedestal and expect it to accomplish things it can’t.” 

I sigh. “All right. I suppose that makes sense.” 

“Good. Now tell me, what do you do when you ‘crash,’ as you put it?”

“I think about Simon needing me. That usually gets me out of bed.” 

She sighs. “Well, that’s not the healthiest answer I can think of, but it’s an answer. Is there anything else that you think would help you when you crash?”

“Like what?” I ask. 

“Some people listen to a favorite song or reread their favorite book when they’re feeling down. Other people take a bath or make tea or call a friend. Can you think of anything along those lines that might appeal to you?” 

I take a few moments to think about it. “I suppose I could come up with something. There are some fun songs I can play on the violin. I’ll have to remember to soundproof my room first.” 

Dr Wilson nods encouragingly. “That sounds great. Now, what do you plan to do the next time you feel suicidal?” 

“I haven’t thought about it, to be honest,” I admit. 

“Well then, let’s think about it now.” 

“I suppose I should call Simon,” I say slowly. “I’d hate to do that to him, but I think he’d do the best at keeping me alive. I mean, he already has.” 

Dr Wilson tilts her head to one side. “What do you mean by that?” 

“He hasn’t told you?” I ask. 

“The thing about patient confidentiality is that I’m going to approach everything you tell me as completely separate from anything Simon’s told me, and I won’t reference anything one of you mentions to the other one. For another thing, it’s helpful to hear your understanding of an event, regardless of whether I’ve already heard Simon’s take on that event or not.” 

I nod. “Okay. Well, when I found out that my mother had been Turned, I drove to the woods with Simon and set a bunch of trees on fire. The idea was to let the fire take me, but Simon kissed me, and then I decided I didn’t want to die, so Simon and I put the fire out. That was our first kiss.” 

“No wonder you think kisses solve everything,” Dr Wilson mutters. I don’t think I was meant to hear her, but my vampire hearing is a blessing and a curse. Louder, she says, “Have you attempted suicide since then?”

“No,” I say. 

“Good. So, if you’re feeling suicidal and Simon isn’t answering his phone, what’s your next step?”

I don’t want a next step. There’s no one else I want to bare my soul to. Hell, I don’t really even want to bare it to Simon. “I suppose I’d call my Aunt Fiona,” I reply at last. 

“And if she doesn’t answer?” 

“Bunce.” 

“All right, good. Three is a good number for a safety plan. Do you generally have warning before you feel suicidal? Do you feel off the day before, or anything?” 

“It’s usually worse if I haven’t fed in a couple of days,” I say slowly. “And if I stay up past two in the morning.” 

Dr Wilson nods. “Good self-awareness. What can you do to avoid those things?” 

“I suppose I could set an alarm on my phone for 1:30 a.m. if I know I’ll be up past midnight, so I can make sure I don’t stay up too late. And I can try to buy pig blood more regularly so I never run out.”

“Those are good ideas.” She pauses. “You’ve had a lot of trauma in your life, Basil. Losing your mother at such a young age, becoming a vampire, experiencing homophobia at the hand of your father, tagging along on some of Simon’s attempts to save the world—why didn’t you seek out therapy before now?” 

I sigh. “I don’t know if you’d understand. Things are different in America. But being a member of the Old Families, in Britain—it means something. And the Pitches are one of the strongest and proudest families of them all. Asking for help isn’t a part of the Pitch playbook.” 

There’s that dry glare again. “You realise that asking for help isn’t weak.” 

I grimace. “No, I don’t realise that, really. It still feels pretty weak to me.” 

“How have the last 20 minutes been for you, Basil? Easy or hard?” 

“Hard.” 

“And what do you think of Simon for getting help?” 

I shake my head. “That’s different. He’s been through so much.”

“And you haven’t?” 

“Not compared to him.” 

“Don’t compare.” 

“You started it,” I say, trying not to feel like Mordelia for saying it. 

“No, I asked what you thought of Simon for getting help.” 

“Well, fine,” I relent. “I think it’s good. That he talks to you. I’d be even more terrified for him if he weren’t talking to you.” 

“Ergo . . .” Dr Wilson waves her hand in a gesture to get me to continue.

“It’s different,” I insist. “Just because he needs to talk to you doesn’t mean I do.” 

“And yet you’ve confessed to feeling suicidal, and your questionnaire reveals you’re depressed. What other criteria do you have for needing therapy, Basil?” 

“But it’s not that bad.” 

“Isn’t it?” she pushes. 

“Okay, yeah, it is,” I say, and I feel something release in my chest. I need this, and I deserve it. It doesn’t make everything better, but I think it’s a step.


End file.
